Battle Scarred and Weary
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: *TSOT Spoilers* (post-Compositional Difficulties, pre-Pervasive Quietness) "I mean, who leaves a wedding early? So sad." - Mrs Hudson
1. Battle Scarred and Weary

It's too late to go back to Baker Street – too late to get a cab back from out here, at least. And the memories would only come thick and fast. No respite possible, unless I look for heroin. (And who could stop me tonight, if I could get back to London?) However, there is no point in conjecturing what ifs or maybes. They won't get me to London.

They won't get me away from here, from this overly-bright and overly-loud and overly-happy crowd of people. (I'm happy for them too, of course I am, though it is buried deep beneath the phantom ache that manifests whenever I allow myself to think of them together. Whenever I remember that it is largely my own fault that I'm in this mess. Must be a closet masochist, helping them plan all of this and inflicting so much pain on myself in the process. But I couldn't pull myself away, needed his presence like air, especially after two long years without it.)

This whole day has been exhausting, putting on a happy face for the crowd, or at least hiding how much agony I've been in all along. Solving a murder at a wedding before it even happens is meant to be exciting, to keep the boredom and dark mood at bay. Not today, not this wedding. The one day that I was supposed to take off, and of course it didn't happen like that. Couldn't even do that for him.

(Mycroft was right, I realise at last. I am far too invested in this, too deeply involved when I said that I never would be.)

I wonder if they've missed me yet. Likely not, too absorbed in their happiness and who could blame them? It's their wedding day. I've been told that these things are joyous occasions. (I'm not feeling it. But I wouldn't.) And of course, there's the extra deduction, the further complication, the baby. The baby that I know he's always thought he'd have, finally on the way, completing the picture of the happy family. (No room for the best friend in the picture, the eccentric best friend with the racing mind who can't switch off for a day like this. How can anyone think of me as the best man, never mind the best friend? The things I've done to him, and still he considers me the best friend with an "of course" as if I should have known. How could I have known?) I suppose that I should be happy about that too, that baby, the final thing to shut me out.

The nicotine patches aren't helping anymore, but he'd be so disappointed in me if he thought that I was smoking today, never mind the other things that I've been contemplating. Should avoid the alcohol, too, after last time. (I came so close to what I've wanted to say for so long, but I couldn't get the words out and he wouldn't believe me anyway. The timing has never been right, always something else getting in the way, and for a moment, I almost thought that he felt the same way.)

A black car pulls up beside me. I draw my coat closer around myself, hoping that he'll get the message and leave me alone. I don't want to face the knowing looks and the inevitable "I told you so." But it'll get me away from here, away from these constant reminders, and maybe even away from London too, if he's guessed right. It's a chance that I'm willing to take, it seems. (Second realisation in only a few minutes. What else has been lurking beneath the surface, waiting for expression or acknowledgment?) Swallowing down my pride, and masking the pain again, I open the door and slide inside. Into battle, once more.


	2. Old Memories Ripped Open

For once, Mycroft is doing the right thing. Keeping me away from London tonight might just be the best decision he's ever made, as if he suspects that it might be a "danger night" (such an irritating name, but he didn't listen when I told him that. Of course he didn't.). The driver doesn't say where we're going, and frankly I don't care. Anywhere but back there will be good enough for me, even if we keep just driving around all night. (This is Mycroft, though, so I'm sure there's a bigger plan at work, but I won't ask because that will only please him and he'll have a big enough head anyway after guessing correctly that I'd need an escape.)

I settle into the leather seat and stretch out my legs, tilting my head back to see out the back window. The stars are out, beautiful as they are. I never told John that I tried to learn them, once, after he laughed at me about the sun. There are a lot of things I've never told him that I should, such as the fact that I slightly enjoy the ridiculous television programmes that he enjoys (but only because they amuse him so much) or that his nagging about body parts in the fridge was one of the reasons that I brought home so many while he lived in Baker Street before. Before everything else got in the way.

I sigh and close my eyes, think of the way he reacted to the head and chuckle to myself. That was so long ago. We were just learning to tolerate each other, though in some respects he was already one of the best people in my life. It was only later that he acceded to the very best. Moriarty hadn't even made his appearance then, though the puzzle of the name was nothing to the puzzle of the man.

Then he got fond of bombs, and threatened John, and the fun all drained out of the puzzle before the two years of hunting and killing. John has seen the scars, of course, but he hasn't asked. (I'm glad, in a way. I don't want him to look at me differently the way that I know he would if he found out about the torture. The pity in his eyes that he'd try to hide, and the gently prodding questions.)

I miss it, sometimes. (A lot of the time.) Having John at Baker Street meant concern and worry, but it also meant running out with him on a murder case at three in the morning and celebrating with take-away, things that have changed now with Mary. (Though she doesn't try to keep us apart, it happens anyway, an evolving division. He has other concerns now that don't fit with mine, don't align the way that things used to with us, and isn't that like a punch to the gut?) Looking back, it was a carefree sort of time filled with adventure, even when the boredom was driving me mad. (It was never as bad with him there as it was before.)

Everything was far easier before, anyway.

(At least, some things were.)


	3. Comforts of Home

The old house is quiet, calm. Peaceful. And though the memories come flooding back, they're not the ones of London. They're easier too, oddly comforting though I never thought that I'd be one for looking back fondly on childhood. (It seems that reminiscence is generally in order tonight.)

My parents are in France, so I have the place to myself, though Mycroft has clearly been. Someone's put a fire on in the living room, and left a case file on the side table. (Something to do with a Greek interpreter. I only flicked through it and left it aside. No more cases today. I'll start it in the morning.) It was likely the same person who bought a bottle of scotch and left it on the sideboard in the kitchen. (My father never drinks scotch, my mother only occasionally has wine. Hence the conclusion of Mycroft.)

I need to get these tails off me. (I only wore them for John, because he thought that he should go all out for his wedding and I didn't have the heart to say that I've never been fond of tails. I've disappointed him enough already.) Even in my childhood bedroom, there are signs of Mycroft's presence. Who else would have picked out the red dressing gown when gathering some stuff from Baker Street? I find myself oddly grateful to him for his meddling and interfering, but just for tonight.

So I flop on the living room couch in front of the fire with the light off, drinking scotch and trying not to think too much about the day that it's been. (It's easier to do that tonight than I anticipated, likely because there are no memories of John and before associated with here. Only Redbeard and childhood piracy and those are easier to deal with, now. Must be the scotch making me maudlin. This didn't happen with beer on the stag night. And I shall divert my thoughts from there again.)

For the first time since this whole sorry mess began, I feel as if things may actually turn out alright. (Maybe. Too soon to tell yet, and it may just be the scotch adding a rosy tint to everything, making me feel better. At least I'm not longing for cigarettes, because I wouldn't get any out here.)

Maybe I ought to be nicer to Mycroft, the next time I see him. (He has, after all, gotten me away from the wedding, distracted me, kept me away from London on this night of all nights. Best decision he's ever made.)

Then again, then he'd know how badly I've felt tonight. Know he was right about my getting involved, right to give me an escape route and though he is right, I don't want to give him a big head. (Maybe I'll buy him a cake, though. He can take that any way that he wants.)

Feeling suddenly drained by it all – the emotion, the festivities, the extra deduction of the baby and all that it entails for them and for me, even if they don't realise it yet and may not for a while - I stretch out along the couch and sigh.

Tomorrow should be easier, anyway.


End file.
